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This morning when I went outside to greet the sun, it was
already almost halfway up in the sky. I try to go out and greet the sun most
mornings. There’s something about feeling sunlight on your face, eyes closed,
that just feels so good especially in the winter.

Every morning, well to be honest, most mornings, I greet the
sun asking it to help me remember to show up in the world in an honest and
authentic way. The gift the sun gives me is an unavoidable reminder that the world
is bigger than me. The sunlight illuminates so much around me. Trees, bushes,
dirt, the neighborhood I live in, an ant crawling along the ground in front of
my foot and an ever shifting shadow – mine as well as everything else’s. Hearing
the birds chirp, the hummingbirds tweeting out there impassioned tune is a
beautiful, gentle reminder that I get to be in this world exploring and witnessing.

Today is the winter solstice and this year it feels
meaningful to me. Not really sure why other than maybe I’ve tried to devote in
very simple ways, energy towards observing the world and connecting to nature. I’ve
always connected to nature but this year especially with writing the book I’ve
been forced to rely on it more heavily than I have ever before. I’ve realized
what a source of strength this subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) natural
world is.

One of the things I’ve tried to do this year was to greet
the sun every morning even if it’s just for a minute. I knew I needed small
ways to both connect to myself and a world which is so much bigger than me. I
came to the conscious choice to try to go and stand in the sun when I was
meditating on simple rituals I could do in my day-to-day life.

I didn’t really expect much other than I knew I felt good
washing myself in sunlight. I know in Mechica traditions and I can imagine
hundreds of other traditions, greeting the sun is a spiritual act. I pay
attention to what people embrace as bringing connection to Spirit, especially
the acts that are simple and doable.

This is the shortest day of the year for those of us in the
northern hemisphere, a natural time to notice a transition between darkness and
light. This is an opportunity for us to embrace small ways we can connect with
ourselves and a world which is so much bigger than us. As the days start to get
longer, we have more sunlight/daytime to pause, peel back the layers from
whatever our focus is on, step outside and greet the sun.

As we have more time with darkness right now, this is an
opportunity to contemplate what we need. This is the time to prepare for the
year ahead. You know what you need. You know if you need sunshine, to hear the
birds sing or something else. What do you need? Are there things you need to
leave behind in order to move into this New Year? What old stories are you
telling yourself? In what ways are you being too hard on yourself? How can you let
go to create a bit of emptiness in your heart in order to let new things in?

What do you need to embrace as you move into this New Year?
What small shifts do you want to make in your life? What ways can you have more
grace for yourself? How do you stay with the emptiness and not just grab the
first thing to come along, to instead wait for what is right? You know what you
need.

The afternoon shadows are already stretching long. I
appreciate this time of darkness. I slow down and it gives me time to think.
This is the time where I learn to trust that I know what I need. When the
daylight comes, I get to try out small acts of growth. I get to learn and try
again.

I am deep in the writing process working steadily towards a
deadline at the end of January. Last week I printed out a lot of my work and am
steadily combing through each chapter and editing, which pretty much involves
me asking myself about 50 times a day, “What am I really trying to say?”

For me, the editing process is not easy. I, of course, want
everything to sound beautiful but I’m realizing that I’m doing well if my writing
is clear, helpful, and grounded in place, body, etc. Journaling about the
editing process, I write:

I
want to do anything but this work. Search for a Truth is so difficult – like
tracking an elusive animal. You know this “Truth animal” when you see it, but
the rest of the time is spent desperately seeking signs it’s still living here.

I
find myself guessing, “Is this footprint Truth? What about these broken limbs,
was it Truth that crashed through here?” Sometimes I feel like most of a Chapter
I write just describes all the signs, the wake of Truth as it tramples through
the world I live in.

I’m
trying to keep going. To somehow push through what feels like dense fog that
has covered this area I’m exploring. I can perceive very little with my senses.
All I hear is the dense silence that comes when every creature is too cautious
to move.

Carefully
I’m moving through this fog now, only because I have to. Maybe I’ll move right
off the edge of a cliff? Crap! I don’t know which way to go. How do I follow a Truth
when I’m unable to chart its tracks?

I pause in my journaling feeling my heart starting to race
and my mind spinning out into panic. I pause and go get another cup of coffee.
I go outside, stand for a few minutes in the sun, and when feeling calmer I sit
back down; pick up my pen and write,

“Truth
exists in many forms. My inner sense of knowing leads me to recognize its
shape, texture and smell. I carry that wisdom with me. I dare to search. I have
carved out space in my life to listen.

Truth.
Not THE truth but A truth lives here. Inside this dense
forest, foliage and trees, there are so many places to hide, even without the
aid of fog.

This
dense fog fills my lungs and I have a hard time breathing, making me move even
slower. But… fog is not smoke. Fog carries moisture to the surface of leaves
and allows a slow drenching of nourishment for the plants. There is a purpose,
even if I don’t think the purpose serves me. Moving slower now, my body has to
be fully present to know where I am.

I
cannot control the fog, the trees, the wind or the water droplets. I can just
be here – me – in this fog moving achingly slow.

Clouds pile on top of each other from behind the mountains, slowly
building, expanding upwards, reaching up and then out across the sky. My
favorite time of year in the desert, this unpredictable Monsoon season, with
the miserable humidity and soaring temperatures and then sudden explosions of
rain bringing cool relief.I
never think in the morning looking out towards the mountains that there will be
rain. Monsoon clouds build slowly. It’s always a surprise when the
bright blue desert sky suddenly is smothered out with dark clouds, the heat, now so
unbearable that I’m sending urgent pleas to the clouds asking for rain.

When rain comes, it is never on my schedule. One minute I’m
crabby and CANNOT cool off. The next minute rain is pouring down flooding the
streets and washes. Like a lot of things in my life - nourishment feels like it is all or
nothing. Days and weeks of frustratingly whittling words out of my body and
heart, suddenly saturated with great conversations and new tools to dig out the
truth. Never when I demand, never when I want, but nourishment comes in its own
time. This teaches me something even more important - how to be patient and
aware of when I have a choice to receive.

Choice is such a decadent thing. When I have a choice, I
savor it, like rolling a piece of chocolate over my tongue, letting it melt and
inhaling the flavor. Somehow, I’m not sure if it’s a North American thing or
what, but I often think I have a right to a choice. A choice when I can receive
help, receive attention or validation. In reality, choice isn’t often something
I get a right to, more often choice is created out of privilege (having
resources) or out of my own awareness of knowing what I need. Privilege is not
something I can count on. Awareness is all I’ve got to access choice.

Awareness is the slow process of learning what it feels like
in my body/mind/heart when I need something. I have to listen and learn a
little at a time. One part of this awareness process is to realize when rain is
coming down, when nourishment suddenly appears I can make a choice to receive
it. This means letting go of whatever I am doing/being when nourishment is
raining down on my head. Purposefully pausing to enjoy and soak it up, a choice
of letting
go of what I thought I wanted - my agenda in the moment, in order to
have what I need - random gift of nourishment.

In the desert when the monsoon storms unleash hard
unrelenting rain upon the sandy soil, only so much can be absorbed. The wombs
of the desert are dry washes which swell and carry the overflowing abundance of
nourishment downriver to areas still dry. Part of becoming aware is my learning
to surrender to nourishment when it arrives. If I let go and allow myself to be
filled, I can carry this nourishment through me and out to others. I receive enough
to share.

· - What are ways you receive nourishment from
nature?

·- How do you know you are getting support (from
people, animals or nature)? What does it feel like?

·- When you’ve received support, attention or help,
how do you share that with others? (Are you more patient, supportive or fun?
Something else?)

About Me

Naomi Ortiz is a writer, poet and visual artist who cracks apart common beliefs and spills out beauty. As a disabled Mestiza living in the U.S./Mexico borderlands, Naomi supports individuals to build bridges through facilitated discussion, art, poetry and reflection, connecting them to their own truths around self-care and living in multiple worlds. Naomi provides individual consultations and is a nationally known speaker and trainer on self-care for activists, disability justice, and intersectionality. Her upcoming book, "Sustaining Spirit: Self Care for Social Justice" invites and supports readers to explore the relationships between mind, body, spirit, heart and place in order to integrate self-care to survive and thrive. "Sustaining Spirit: Self Care for Social Justice" will be released in 2017.